The Hobbit, the Elf and the Ferret!
by GoldenAmaryllis
Summary: Crack fic! What happens after the terrible narrator is run out, leaving a hobbit and an elf with a mysterious bag? Minto Labingi and Faeron Greenwood of Eryn Lasgalen are left to tell the story completely on their own as the fourth wall shatters to bits!


**A/N: Random crack fic I felt like writing. Based off of a roleplay my friend and I do. I have no idea what age it's in. Probably 5th, but that still makes no sense...whatever. It was originally going to be a one shot, but I guess not. Read it if you dare. :P**

Once upon a time, there were two friends. One had come to visit the other at his nice, cozy home in the Shire. They had known each, not for a long time, but quite some time. They had gone on an adventure a long time ago, where they had a bit of fun, a bit of trouble, and in general just a lot of adventure.

One was a hobbit.

"My friend, do open the door!"

The door swung open creakily. "What, you again?" This was the hobbit. Hobbits, of course, were of nature not the most charitable of creatures. And like I'd said, they'd known each other for quite some time. But not quite that long.

The other was an elf.

"Minto, you scoundrel, how dare you talk to me like that?!" And being an elf, he was, of course, elegant and graceful and understanding, as elves were, but it could be, at times, slightly overpowered by the pompous, overbearing nature that they had.

"Oh, the almighty Faeron of Eryn Lasgalen, I bow down to you," said the significantly smaller being sarcastically. "That more like it?"

The elf sniffled, pulling a face. "Well, fine. It's not like every day I get to talk to a Baggins."

"Labingi!" Minto insisted. "I am a Labingi!"

Now of course, Minto was a Baggins. In fact, he was a direct descendent of the Frodo Baggins himself. Or maybe it was Bilbo? Never mind. Anyways, for some reason he was insistent on the Westron pronunciation of his name.

"Fine." Faeron cleared his throat. "Well, the Elven King of Eryn Lasgalen wants to see you."

"Phooey," muttered the Labingi, "The old man never stops calling does he. Just because I saved the world doesn't mean I'm at his every beck and call."

What? Since when had Minto ever saved the world? And why don't I, the narrator, even know about it? A mystery appears as the plot unwinds...

Minto pauses, looking at the sky. "Do you hear anything?"

"Yes," said Faeron tensely. "It sounds like..."

Oh, it's in these dramatics pauses in which the bad guys are revealed. So what is it? A new Dark Lord? Or just orcs invading the Shire? Or maybe it's another wizard gone bad?! Boy, don't you wish Gandalf was here now?

Faeron narrowed his eyes. "A narrator. What the heck dude?!"

In common face of trouble, the two not-acquaintances-but-not-quite-friends united. "Get out of our story!" cried Minto.

"And stop telling it in past tense!" agrees Faeron. "You're messing the whole thing up!"

What? What's wrong with past tense?

Minto snorts. "These interfering narrators. Wouldn't our lives we so much easier without them, Faeron?"

"Yes, the last one completely ruin the suspense! They're like overzealous fans!"

Woah, that's a big word. What does it mean?

"See what I mean?" said Faeron meaningfully.

Wait! But I've heard of that narrator! He's like, famous now! And you can't deny that some narrators were really good! How do you think Frodo and Bilbo's stories got told do well? If you rejected them then who would tell your stories? Face it, you need narrators.

Minto grumbled under his breath. "Look, if you don't go away then I'll set the whole Shire on you. They HATE intruders. So basically, you've got three seconds." He holds up three stubby fingers.

No no no no no, please! You can't!

"Two."

A finger ticks down.

"One."

I'm going, I'm going!

* * *

Why hello. I'm Minto Labingi. Mind you, that's Labingi, not Baggins. And this is why I hate narrators. They translate and ruin all kinds of good names. Especially that one. What was with all that "they don't know each other that well" thing anyways? Faeron and I are actually particularly good friends. And what's with the "doesn't know when I saved the world?" Everyone knows about that one! Grrr...

Anyways, I don't mean to be impolite, but I haven't exactly been in the best of moods, and hearing about Elvenking asking for another meeting is aggravating to say the least. Even Faeron's presence isn't placating enough.

"So let's continue," I tell Faeron. "Now that we're rid of that pesky narrator."

"She was even worse than the usual ones," grumbles Faeron. "What the heck was up with the story telling in past tense while talking to us? It never makes any sense."

I roll my eyes. "Yes, that is very well, but it's over now. Speaking of which, what is that bag over there?"

He looks over his shoulder. "Oh that? It's a gift from the Elvenking to the Lady of Lothlorien."

I walk up to it curiously. "What's in it? And why are there suspicious holes poked in it?"

"It's a secret," says Faeron firmly.

"Not cool," I grumble, but relent.

* * *

A few hours later, we found ourselves ambushed by orcs. You know, just to keep the story interesting.

Minto is travelling completely obliviously when I hear something. I pull him aside and hiss, "Did you hear that?"

"No..."

"Yrchs," I tell him, so he nods and braces his walking staff.

Oh, by the way, I never got to introduce myself. I'm Faeron Greenwood, lord prince of Eryn Lasgalen, son of the son of the Elvenking. It's rather tiring to be known as the son of the son of this important person, but you know. Sometimes you just gotta deal. But still —

"Faeron you idiot!"

I whip out of the way of the orc blade just in time, laughing on an adrenaline high. "Woah! Not so fast there, huh fella?" A fine, elvish blade finds itself in my hands and I gut the thing.

"Concentrate!" I hear Minto cry.

Pssh, who needs to concentrate when you have superior hearing and reflexes? I love battlefields. Minto says I turn into a completely maniac. Whaaat? No I dont. I just need an outlet to all my frustration at being completely unrecognized.

I don't quite remember much of the next few, er, minutes. I sort of lost track of time. But wasn't that fun?!

* * *

Minto here. I hope you weren't entirely creeped out by Faeron's...thing. Oh, he blacked out for most of it? Good then. It would have been slightly freakier from my perspective. And no, I'm not going to tell you my perspective.

We're at Lothlorien, if you can't tell. So far we haven't run into anyone, which is strange.

In no time at all, I find myself with a dozen arrows in my face. Of course. Standard greeting.

"What is your business here?"

I raise an eyebrow at Faeron. "The Elvenking didn't warn them that we were coming?"

He shrugs, as if to say, "Of course not."

Figures.

"The Elvenking's regards," calls Faeron. "And we bring a gift."

What the heck was this gift thing anyways? You should ask him if you ever get the chance.

A voice is suddenly speaking in our heads. 'Let them pass.'

Phew.

* * *

Oh, you're wondering what that thing in the bag is? Well I actually have no idea. Really.

* * *

What?! He doesn't even know? Great. We'll just have to see what the Lady Galadriel has to say about that.

Faeron presents the bag. "I think it just moved," I whisper nervously to him.

He shrugs. "Yep, it does that."

"That's not good..."

But he doesn't reply. Oh great.

"What does..." the Lady Galadriel says very slowly, "...the Elvenking..."

Sheesh, talk faster woman!

"...offer? And I heard that."

Stupid mind reader.

She smirks.

"He offers, er, this bag," says Faeron. "And his highest regards."

Galadriel gestures to another elf, who opens the bag very slowly...

**A/N: Guess what's in the bag? O.O I can't believe I'm even posting this... Congrats for getting through that. Time to go write the second chappie...**


End file.
